


Inside Out

by Loudest_Voice



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Crossover, Crossover Pairings, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-03-08 07:53:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3201380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loudest_Voice/pseuds/Loudest_Voice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Love is never any better than the lover." Toni Morrison.</p><p>Love cannot cure a psychopath, though a psychopath might wish differently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inside Out

**Author's Note:**

> You know when you want to read a story but the premise is such a delicious combination of weird and trite no one else is going to write it but you?
> 
> That's what this is.

The magic guarding the barriers between the worlds is Dark.

For Tom Riddle Jr., Dark is a word thrown around by men determined to keep the strong from reaching out for power. It cannot hold him back. The secrets of the Philosopher's Stone may be all but lost to his world, but his world is not the only one. Somewhere, someone has the knowledge he seeks.

"Tom," the Mudblood inside the Circle gasps as Tom draws the last flourish on the floor.

Tom looks up at him, working his eyebrows into a practiced furrow that makes him look slightly annoyed but still concerned.

The Mudblood balks, his thin shoulders hunching.

Tom turns towards his Pureblood brethren, gesturing at his clothes vaguely. Instantly, Nott starts removing his outer robes and steps into the Circle to hand it to the Mudblood. It's often cold in the dungeons, more so in the hidden corners where Tom and his chosen few practice the Forbidden Arts, and it's imperative that the Mudblood's weaker impulses don't interfere with the spell. If only Tom could be sure the Circle will work with the Mudblood unconscious. As it is, it's up in the air whether it will work with the wretched thing awake and lucid.

"Today you are doing far more than abolishing the taint in your lineage," Tom tells the Mudblood, looking directly into his wet brown eyes, "you are changing the world."

The Mudblood smiles, and a true grin takes over Tom's face. Such an enterprising creature, this Mudblood. Weak, but determined. Untalented, but undaunted by others’ boundaries. It's fitting that his death will be the one to bring Tom the embrace of eternity.

With one last reassuring smile at the Mudblood, Tom points his wand at the Circle and concentrates on enunciating the words to the enchantment he spent weeks composing. The lines of the Circle, lovingly drawn with the Mudblood's foul blood, begin to glow a sickly green. Ozone tickles Tom's nose before the Mudblood starts screaming, shrill and hacked like his throat his closing off and the air in his lungs vanishing. Tom spares a second to bow his death will be slow and agonizing if he can't hold on long enough for the spell to work before plastering a gentle smile and looking up.

His jaw almost hits the floor.

The Mudblood's skin is sizzling away and his eyes are bulging out of their sockets. Tom sees the chalky white of his skull before the sickly green glow overtakes everything in the room--the unforgiving edges of the gravel on the cave's floor, the scent of wet rock clogging the air, the Mudblood's aborted scream, everything. Tom almost loses his footing. The magic is not coming from him anymore, his wand is useless in his hand and then the green glow is gone, like a candle being snuffed by a careless thumb.

" _Lumos_ ," says Tom.

The first thing he sees is gold.

Tom has no time to school his features before the boy inside the Circle--golden everywhere, eyes and hair and even though his _Lumos_ is harsh, Tom can see that his skin tanned golden--looks away to stare down at his own arm, which is stained with blood. The newcomer's or the Mudblood's, Tom cannot tell.

The boy rubs at the blood running down his right arm and keens, taking a step backwards. Tom's Death Eaters start moving like startled lemmings, their disorganized steps scratching against the gravel as they move forward, all desperate to prove their eagerness to step between their Lord and whatever threat the golden boy might pose. Tom waves them away as the boy stumbles and falls to the floor, unconscious and covered by nothing besides blood.

* * *

In all honesty, Tom is surprised his spell worked. Never mind that it's the first one he's ever created, it also combines the Dark Arts with Charms, Transfiguration, and a forbidden branch of magic no one seems to remember anything about.

Alchemy.

Several failed attempts wouldn't be unusual and Tom even has a mental list of other classmates who would be relatively easy to persuade into the Circle, though thanks to his natural talent and brilliance he'll no longer have to waste countless hours ingratiating himself with them.

Next morning, he's so flush with success that it's difficult to keep his eyes appropriately furrowed when he offers Dumbledore and Slughorn apologies for not noticing the Mudblood's dabbling with the Dark Arts.

"He's been speaking about purifying himself for weeks," says Tom, looking down and clasping his hands together like a nervous choir boy. "I never guessed he'd . . ." He trails off, like he has no words to describe what the Mudblood has done.

Slughorn trips all over himself to comfort to Tom, but Dumbledore only stares from behind his glasses. Tom bites his lips, a practiced motion that turns his amused smirks into grimaces of confusion. The old bastard can suspect Tom all he wants; he will find nothing to implicate Tom with the Mudblood.

Tom encouraged the Mudblood to openly discuss his fascination with the Dark Arts in public and made sure he was caught in the Restricted Section without a teacher's permission by the Ravenclaw prefects more than once. If anything, people (Tom's followers) would note Tom had tried to befriend the Mudblood in an attempt to steer him back on the “right path”.

"You should head to class, Tom," Slughorn is saying, "wouldn't want old Willhem to take points from Slytherin, now would we?"

"And the boy . . ." Tom asks as he starts turning around. "Is he alright?"

"He's fine," Slughorn dismisses. "Just an unfortunate Muggle."

Tom can't keep his eyes from widening in surprise. He has to flee the office with nothing more than a curt nod.

He goes through a secret passage by the Northern stairs, passing through the dungeons and into the hidden, decaying and half-built little cave where he'd tried his Alchemy spell.

More than a year of research to draw the blasted Circle, months befriending that Mudblood rat, weeks teaching himself wandless magic, hours coming up with the right combination of words for a new spell. All just to get a bloody Mudblood _worm_ into Hogwarts.

A large crack explodes through the cave's floor, slicing the Circle in half and making Tom wince in disgust. He takes a deep breath and glares at the Circle he'd been so proud of just minutes before. Dumbledore will likely return to the scene and he'll notice if anything has changed, so Tom starts restoring the Circle. Every time he notices the Mudblood's blood blurring the delicate lines of his design, Tom has to pause so his magic doesn't break free and . . . and . . .

Willhem does take points from Slytherin because their Prefect doesn't bother showing up to class. Tom's Death Eaters are at a loss and it doesn't make them feel any better to watch Tom downing a bottle of curdled Butterbeer to give himself food poisoning. 

* * *

The failed Alchemy experiment paralyses Tom for almost a week.

He can't give up on it. Of course he can't. But if his spell brought a Mudblood to Hogwarts, he'll have to start from scratch to get himself an Alchemist. Those blessed with magic are, after all, fundamentally different than the dull rats littering the world daring to imitate human speech. A spell that summons Mudbloods is about as close to summoning an Alchemist as Houdini was to Apparating.

Tom has plans. As much as it grates him, he'll have to put the Alchemy experiments to rest.

"When will the Slug Club meet next?" Tom asks Nott that night.

Nott's lips whiten, which means he has no idea and is terrified of how Tom might react.

"Find out," Tom snaps with a dismissive wave, lacking the energy or motivation to torture someone for appearances’ sake. The Death Eaters scramble away from him like squirrels at the sound of footsteps.

Slughorn's next informal club is three days later and Tom sits beside him with a placid half-smile painted on his lips while Avery gushes about his uncle's dealings with the Department of Secrets. Soon, Rookwood is discussing a German uncle of his who teaches Experimental Magics (Dark Arts) at Durmstrang. Avery's older brother is investigating hidden ruins in Africa, where he theorizes the first wizards delved into Blood Magic. Nott’s father is about to Head Azkaban. It seems everyone’s brother or cousin or father is about revolutionize the Wizarding World.

Except Tom. He has only a dready Mudblood orphanage and pitying looks from Slughorn whenever someone points out what a shame it is that his talents languished without guidance for eleven years.

By now, Tom can spend hours wearing a recalcitrant Mudblood’s face. A face that’s humble and grateful when his betters choose to include him.

* * *

Tom must take care not to indulge his cravings for solitude so often that he forgets to keep his followers appropriately terrified of him. Most of the time hearing their screams is enough to at least calm him, if not to make the time he must spend with them entirely worth it, but lately . . .

The library is the only place that doesn’t make him yearn to sleep for a thousands years. He’s been risking unauthorized trips to the restricted sections more often than usual, rationalizing that he can probably get away with playing stupid once or twice and pretend he got distracted and didn’t realize where he'd wandered to. It’s either getting lost in Herpo’s Lost Treatise or finding some Gryffindor to terrorize. If anything, the former is less risky.

Not that it matters if someone else is invading his sanctuary.

Tom almost doesn’t hold his magic back before he catches the glinting gold of the intruder’s hair.

It’s so absurd to see a Mudblood at Hogwarts that Tom is staring - like an idiot, undoubtedly - when the Mudblood raises his eyes from the book he's reading and fixes his eerily golden gaze on Tom.

“You,” he says.

“I . . .” Tom speaks three languages, is well on his way to being fluent with a fourth, but he still has no words.

The Mudblood goes back to his book, dismissing Tom like he’s some kind of . . . like he’s nothing.

“I assumed you’d been dealt with by now,” says Tom.

“If you mean the mind rape,” the Mudblood says without looking up, “that was already attempted.”

By mind rape, he must mean a Memory Charm. And since the Mudblood is in the restricted section . . . it failed.

And if it failed, then he’s no Mudblood at all.

Of course not. Tom’s spell wouldn’t have failed so thoroughly.

“I thought this part of the library was forbidden,” the boy says. He does not sound British . . . or like anyone else Tom has ever heard.

“I . . .” starts Tom. “I must have wandered here by mistake.” He adds a self-deprecating laugh.

“Uh-huh,” says the boy.

Once again, Tom is at a loss. The boy is not reacting in any way he's used to. There are no reflexive attempts at ingratiation, no token overtures of false curiosity about who Tom is and what he might need. The boy must be someone powerful, though he certainly doesn’t look it. He’s wearing a thin white undershirt that does nothing to hide the grossly defined musculature of his arms--a sign of someone who must strain around like an animal because he has no magic to assist him.

Ignoring proprietary, Tom sits down in front of him. He looks down at the book - Flamel’s Musing’s on the Lost Art of Alchemy - and bites back a smile.

“Can I help you?” challenges the boy.

Tom stares at the strange eyes, the copper dark pupil framed by a honey iris with flecks of gold. No filthy Mudblood could ever be so striking. “My name is Tom Riddle,” he says, though the boy hasn’t asked. “I fear I owe you an apology for the . . . circumstances that lead you here.”

“Why?” demands the boy. “Was it your fault?”

“No!” Tom says quickly. “I mean, I am the Slytherin Prefect and Robert . . . I’m supposed to keep an eye on . . . to set an example for my fellow housemates and . . .”

The boy looks down at his book before Tom can gather his thoughts and Tom could strangle the bastard for making him sound like such a blithering fool.

“People will do what they want,” the boy says, getting up. “Don’t go around blaming yourself for other people’s stupid shit, Tom; no one likes a martyr.”

That's just a blatantly false statement.

“I didn’t catch your name,” says Tom before the boy can disappear into the the shelves.

“Edward Elric,” the boy waves without a backward glance. “Nice to meet you, I guess.”

* * *

Three days later, Dumbledore interrupts a dinner in the Great Hall to announce that his nephew from the United States is spending a season with him. Which is absurd but of course no one questions what the great and wise Dumbledore, terror to Dark Wizards everywhere, has to say. Only Tom's Death Eaters look to him for guidance and they guess the truth only because most of them witnessed Elric's arrival at Hogwarts. Though honestly, they ought to be able to figure out on their own that they're in no position to challenge Dumbledore.

At least Dumbledore gave Elric proper robes and straightened his golden hair so the longest strands reached below his waist, sharply contrasting the rich dark fabric of his new clothes. He looks cleaner and richer, but somehow lessened. Without his obscenely defined muscles and with his hair looking like a glinting but limp curtain, it's obvious that he's either very short or very young. Maybe both.

It doesn't keep the girls from tittering about how beautiful he is, or the men from wondering if he's anywhere near as powerful as Dumbledore. Questions about the name Elric dominate most conversations not focused on discussions about Wizarding culture overseas. The students sitting further from the teachers' table dare to bring up rumors about Dumbledore's mother being a Mudblood.

Tom watches Elric. He eats as though possessed by a vengeful, starving ghost, then seems to realize there’s enough food to feed an army and starts to push food around in his plate dejectedly. Some teachers, Slughorn most of all, try and fail to engage him in conversation.

Less than an hour into the dinner, Elric abruptly excuses himself. It causes a new flurry of speculation, of course--rude, so rude of a guest to flee from dinner so early--but Elric either doesn't notice or, much more likely in Tom's opinion, doesn't care. Dumbledore offers his fellow teachers a chuckle and excuses that Tom is too far away to hear.

It takes Tom several minutes to extricate himself from an inane conversation with Antilia Black and by then it’s impossible to catch up to Elric. Tom indulges a fantasy of skinning Antilia’s incessant tongue before rushing towards the library. It’s where he goes whenever he’s feeling frustrated and can’t escape to his rooms without drawing attention to himself, and Elric doesn't have rooms at Hogwarts. The library is one of the few places a person can demand silence without looking like a boor.

But Elric isn’t there, not even in the restricted section. Tom has no idea where Elric would go to clear his head after a snit. The brat hasn’t even been in Hogwarts long enough to know his way around.

* * *

Days go by with Tom--and there’s really no other way to put it-- _obsessing_ over Elric. He’s been all but stalking the restricted section at the library, even went as far as getting permission to be there from Slughorn, but Elric’s either not going, or going only when Tom’s in class. It’s infuriating. Tom needs to probe him about alchemy.

After a week of surveying the library and Hogwarts' hallways for Elric’s golden hair like some kind of dimwitted Niffler, he spots Isobel Ross, one of the Gryffindor prefects, leading Elric towards the Quidditch field. Someone’s given him Gryffindor scarf and even though red and gold suit him, Tom wants nothing more than to rip the damned thing away from his throat. Tom’s the one who brought Elric to Hogwarts. If they must dress him in a poor facsimile of a Hogwarts uniform, then it should at least be green and silver.

Elric says something that makes Isobel throw her head back in uncontrollable laughter. Elric looks like at her like she’s grown a second head, so it’s probably one of those fake laughs girls bestow on men they want to fuck.

Isobel is not bad looking, she’s clever enough as far as girls go, and she’s not the type to care much there isn’t a single Pureblood family that goes by Elric in England. The average man would be gratified by her attention. Maybe even elated.

Much to Tom’s chagrin, Elric must feel someone staring at him because he stops talking to Ross mid-sentence and turns to look Tom’s way. Tom can’t keep his shoulders from hunching and his face from heating, but Elric’s thankfully too far away to notice. He ducks away without bothering to grace Isobel with so much as a glance.

Tom is so fixated on the incident that Slughorn notices him not paying attention during Potions later that day and deducts five points from Slytherin, looking at Tom like an old housewife disappointed with her favorite Kneazle’s performance at a Diagon Alley fair.

That night, Nott brings him _A History of Alchemy_ when Tom asks for _The Rise and Fall of Alchemy_ , and that’s all it takes for Tom to spend almost an hour watching the idiot writhe under _Crucio_. His Death Eaters needed to be reminded that Tom does not tolerate anything less than perfection, but . . .

Tom usually makes a night of it, picks random Death Eaters because it’s not like any one of them has what it takes to withstand The Cruciatus Curse for too long, but Nott’s screams give him a headache. He could use a Silencing Charm, but torture just doesn’t have quite the same effect without accompanying screams, certainly not for more than a few seconds.

Tom settles for making Nott kiss his feet and then orders the Death Eaters away. He spends the night tossing and turning in bed, images of Isobel wrapping Elric in red and gold chasing away his sleep.

* * *

More than a week later, Tom finally runs into Elric on one of the castles' roofs after an Astrology lesson. It’s a cloudless night perfect for watching the subtle changes in the stars as the Earth makes its way around the Sun, and almost everyone else is scurrying all over the castle orchestrating Halloween pranks.

Tom is enjoying a bit of solitude when he spots a wisp of red and gold in the corner of his eye. He’s about to whirl around and head to the dungeon, but then he catches sight of a golden braid and stops in his tracks.

Elric’s attention is absorbed by the stars.

Tom stares at his profile. He has the kind of jaw most men would envy; masculine despite the lack of facial hair, unblemished by zits or freckles. Instead of proper robes, he's wearing . . . Tom can't tell from a distance but whatever it is, it hugs his limbs like skin. Leather. He's wearing leather and if Tom hadn't been the one to summon him, he would've guessed Elric is from another world then and there.

“People keep staring at me,” Elric says. “Back home too, but I assumed it was ‘cause . . .”

Elric trails off, giving Tom a chance to finish berating himself for staring like a moron once again. He walks towards Elric with a small smile.

“Am I ugly or something?”

 _Quite the opposite_ , Tom would say if Elric was a woman.

Sadly, he’s not. And even if Tom could be sure Elric would be receptive to such advances from another man, Tom’s not entirely sure he’s willing to make them. So he settles for saying “you’re a new face” and leans back against the stone wall when Elric snorts but doesn’t send him away.

“They stared at you back home?” Tom asks.

“The stars are different.” Elric ignores his question without bothering to look at him. “ _Really_ different, or I wouldn’t even notice ‘cause it’s not like I had time for this Astrology bullshit back home.”

Divination is probably the most difficult field in all of Magic, more so than the Dark Arts even. Raw power in Divination is not necessarily correlated with power in any other magic, and unfortunately there hasn’t been a single Seer clever enough to work out how their powers work, much less put together any texts with something resembling coherence for the rest of the Wizarding world to follow.

Once Tom has conquered death, he will take the necessary time to master the art.

In the meantime, Divination is his easiest subject, a place where he can be fanciful while adding another Outstanding score to his N.E.W.T.s without needing to sacrifice any time better spent on his independent studies.

Not that he plans to bore Elric with his plans.

“What did you do back home?”

“I was an alchemist,” says Elric. “Then I was studying to be a doctor.”

“It’s a lost art here,” says Tom with a smile, choosing to ignore the distasteful notion of Elric in a cheap Mudblood profession. “There’s only one alchemist left.”

Or there was. Now there’s Tom.

And Elric.

“I read his book,” spits Elric, “and if that’s the best this world has to offer as far as alchemy’s concerned, then I’m well and truly _fucked_.”

"How so?" asks Tom, ignoring a little thrill out how easily Elric cusses. It's crass and should probably annoy him.

"Ed, there you are!" a shrill voice interrupts them.

Tom takes a small step away from Elric as Isobel shambles up the stairs, huffing and puffing like a dumb mule.

"Professor Dumbledore's looking for you," she tells Elric after gracing Tom with an absent minded nod. "He says it's very important."

Elric makes a frustrated noise, rubs the side of his face, grimacing as though trying to shake away a stubborn headache. "Right," he says. "See you around, Tim."

Tim?

"Oh, that's _Tom_ Riddle," Isobel corrects him, adding a giggle that ensures Tom won't rest until her vocal cords are only capable of producing shrill screams.

"Right, right," yawns Elric as he follows Isobel to the stairs. "Tom. Sorry." 

* * *

The Death Eaters spend the next couple of days trying to become invisible.

It makes them clumsy and stupider than usual, which serves Tom well since he takes the flimsiest of excuses to torture them until they vomit. When _Crucio_ becomes too blunt to grant him satisfaction, Tom uses Legilimency to burrow into his followers minds, where he can fill their every waking moment with a baseless air of dread. Their hearts beat out of synch with their minds, their senses perk up to stimuli that does not exists, and their limbs shiver even though the House Elves keep the dungeons at a pleasant simmer.

It's a waste of time and energy to torture them so badly that they keep costing Slytherin points. Never mind that it's a stupid contest; Tom wants Slytherin to win on principle alone. It's just that Tom needs the amusement their hunched, terrified demeanor brings him. Whenever he focuses on anything else, he's interrupted by visions of Isobel laughing at him while Elric sticks a hand up her skirt.

Rumors about Elric hardly improve his mood, but he orders his Death Eaters to keep him apprised about them regardless. When he learns Elric has been spotted at the library with Katrina Smith, a Ravenclaw Mudblood who rambles on about her scientist Mudblood parents to anyone who'll listen, he has to escape into one of his secret hideouts behind the deepest dungeons of Slytherin House. There he stares at rocks and digs at them with his magic until the pressure around his temples eases away.

Tom brings a bloody _alchemist_ to Hogwarts and the unkempt, filthy-mouthed, badly dressed _brat_ is wasting his time with a batty _Mudblood_.

He figures it's time to stop sulking and start planning when Slughorn asks him to stay behind after a Slug Club meeting just to ask if he's feeling all right.

"You've been out of sorts lately, my boy," Slughorn admonishes with what he probably thinks is a fatherly pat to Tom's shoulder. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're lovesick."

"Hardly," Tom demures. Sometimes, Slughorn's tendencies for fishwife gossip are too tedious to handle. "I've simply run into a bit of a wall in my private studies is all."

"You?" Slughorn waves a hand dismissively, then reaches for a delicate teacup. "You're already more knowledgeable than many random wizard traipsing around in Diagon Alley. Your marks hardly resemble those of a boy frustrated with his academic pursuits."

"The curriculum is not too troublesome," says Tom, looking down at his hands to adopt an air of humility. On a whim, he adds, "it's my studies with alchemy that have me forgetting my manners, I'm afraid."

"Alchemy?"

“I’ve been looking into the subject since the incident with . . .” Tom waves a hand, like he can’t even bring himself to mention the debacle that brought Elric to Hogwarts. “I’ve yet to attempt any spells, of course, since I can’t find a safe way to do so.”

“Of course, of course,” agrees Slughorn. “Such a shame really. If only those blasted Goblins weren’t so greedy . . . I’m convinced advances with alchemy stalled only because they want to keep a hold on the Wizarding World’s purse strings!”

Probably, but Tom’s not going to get anywhere by indulging Slughorn’s political rants.

“I certainly wish there was someone with some practical knowledge to help guide my studies,” Tom laments with a sheepish sigh.

“Well!” Slughorn starts. His usual smile turns into a pained grimace somewhere along the way to his face. “There’s that Elric boy . . .”

“Then the rumors are true?”

“But he’s a beast, that boy!”

* * *

For once, Slughorn isn’t exaggerating for dramatic effect. Tom learns as much when they approach Elric in the library after hours.

“What, you think this is a fucking _vacation_ for me?” Elric demands when Slughorn approaches him, Tom trailing behind him like a dutiful disciple, with a suggestion that his time at Hogwarts might be more enjoyable if he chose to collaborate with the some students in his scholarly pursuits. “You think there’s a single thing in this shithole I’ll find enjoyable?”

Tom has only heard such language in the orphanage. Even the grimiest holes in Diagon Alley have more class. It’s a miracle the bookshelves of Hogwarts Library don’t come to life and swallow Elric hole.

“M-my boy,” Slughorn stammers.

“I’m not your boy,” Elric snaps. His hair’s not tied back or wrapped into a braid, and it falls around his face like a lion’s mane.

“Any student - ”

“I’m not a fucking _student_ either,” Elric almost screams.

Dumbledore appears from behind the shelves and for a disorienting second, Tom is happy to see him.

“Edward, this is a library,” Dumbledore admonishes. “Have respect for the other patrons if you can’t find any for the texts housed here.”

“Fuck you,” Elric says, without much heat. Like Dumbledore’s a particularly annoying flea. “I wouldn’t even _be_ here if one of your shitty students hadn’t wiped his ass and called the stain on the paper an array.”

Slughorn makes a scandalized noise and Tom is too busy grimacing at the mental image to be offended at Elric’s belittlement of his Circle.

“We’ve already apologized for the unfortunate circumstances that brought you here,” Dumbledore started.

“Yeah, I remember the heartfelt apology right before you tried mindrape me,” Elric interrupts.

“And now that you’re here,” Dumbledore continues, “we want nothing more than to help you return to your home.”

“That’s nice,” says Elric, flipping a page from the book he’s reading, “too bad you’re all fucking idiots.”

“I don’t have to stand here and be insulted by some classless upstart!” Slughorn declares with a huff before whirling around with enough force to make his robes billow despite being inside.

Elric doesn’t even look up from his book.

Tom knows he should follow Slughorn, but Dumbledore seems unbothered by his presence and he’d rather soothe Slughorn’s ego later than surrender a chance to observe Elric while he spits on Dumbledore’s sainted presence.

“Edward, I was mistaken in my initial assessment,” says Dumbledore. “You can learn magic and find a place in this world, even if you can never return to where you came from.”

Elric shoots Dumbledore a look filled with such venom that for a moment, Tom’s convinced that he really _will_ spit at the most fearsome wizard alive. “No thanks.”

Dumbledore sighs, then raises an eyebrow in Tom’s general direction.

Tom nods and leaves the library corner without a word. He’s made enough progress it doesn’t even bother him that he didn’t get a chance to speak to Elric alone.

Elric is not some filthy Mudblood. Of course he’s not.

* * *

Tom’s mood improves dramatically, but his Death Eaters still tiptoe around him like frightened mice, leaving him plenty of room to discreetly chase after Elric. The library’s practically cursing his attempts to run into the bastard, so Tom starts spending more and more nights lounging in the Astrology Tower, hoping that Elric has developed a yearning for stargazing.

Days pass without a hint of brilliantly golden hair gracing Tom’s sight. If not for catching wind of a rumor about Elric being spotted with a wand, Tom might have started torturing his Death Eaters again to alleviate his frustrations.

Luckily for them, Tom finally runs into Elric a few days later.

Elric’s in the Astrology Tower, still wrapped in that strange leather and a gaudy Gryffindor scarf. Once again, Tom has to approach him, his belly dancing with excitement at the chance to finally have an alchemist’s attention. If anyone interrupts them, Tom doubts he’ll be able to restrain himself from obliterating them on the spot.

“Trying to learn your new stars?” Tom asks even though Elric is curled in on himself, hugging his legs and laying his chin on his knee, eyes fixed on the floor.

“Go away,” says Elric.

It’s a good thing Elric doesn’t deign to look up because Tom can’t keep his face from twisting into an ugly scowl.

“It might help to . . . talk about it,” tries Tom, the words coming out hesitant and clumsy. No one’s ever made it so damned hard for him before.

“I’m never going back home,” Elric murmurs at the ground. He takes a deep breath, then pushes his forehead against his knees. Tom hears a wet a sniffle. “It’ll take me a lifetime to work it out and my family . . .”

It’s the perfect opening to forge a bond. Elric’s obviously vulnerable, but Tom comes up blank.

“Unless . . . ” Elric continues mumbling.

 _Unless?_ Tom is dying to prompt.

But it’s too soon. He slinks down beside Elric, close enough to be heard without having to raise his voice, but not so close that Elric will be jealous of his personal space.

“I have no family,” he starts, “but sometimes I almost feel like I . . . miss them.”

“I have a brother,” says Elric, sniffling like--

\--Tom hates the wailing brats at the orphanage.

“He’s smart and kind and perfect; and we’ve just barely started getting our lives back on track. And _Winry_ \--” Elric chokes and curls in on himself further.

“Winry?” prompts Tom.

“My wife,” says Elric. “They’re gonna think I’m dead. Or worse. Al’s gonna get obsessed and waste his life looking for me.”

Married. Elric has a wife somewhere, probably a sweet thing who brushes his hair and lets him use her thighs as pillows.

“How old are you?”

Elric grunts, rises to his feet, quick and graceful as a sphinx, and rests his arms on the castle’s railings. Tom feels like newborn calf when he moves to stand beside him, though he towers over Elric and should, for all intents and purposes, make _him_ feel inadequate. Men don’t like being short.

“Twenty,” answers Elric.

“You--”

“--I swear if you call me short--”

“--I was _going_ to say you look younger,” interrupts Tom. Slughorn is right. The boy-- _man_ is a goddamn beast. “And most people would be overjoyed if they suddenly had an opportunity to learn magic.”

Elric grunts. “Magic’s just science nobody understands yet.”

It’s blasphemous, what Elric’s implying. Saying. Tom ought to shred his stupid, Muggle muscles to a bloody pulp.

“Muggles roll in dirt and guts and call it progress.”

“And everyone here’s all Dark this and Forbidden that and using fucking quills and birds to deliver mail, and it’s suffocating,” interrupts Elric. “I’m leaving.”

“You can’t.” Tom pauses, vaguely alarmed and half-convinced Elric just made the decision on the spot.

“I can’t go back home, but no one can keep me in this damned castle against my will,” says Elric, hands curled into a fists. “Katrina’s the smartest person here; knows Math, at least, and her parents are electricians. Where there’s electricity, there might just be a touch of _brains_.”

Tom’s head is swimming. Elric wouldn’t leave Hogwarts. Not to chase after batty Mudbloods with delusions of grandeur . . . Dumbledore wouldn’t let him.

“Dumbledore’ll probably cry of happiness once I break it to him I want out of his hair,” Elric mumbles to himself. “And I bet it wouldn’t be that hard to get a job as a medic somewhere.”

“I have Robert’s notes,” Tom hears himself say.

He freezes when Elric neck practically whirls towards him, golden eyes narrowed. He’s short and probably doesn’t even know how to hold a wand, but Tom’s heart beats faster anyway.

“I’d been trying to talk him out of his wild plan,” starts Tom.

“Why didn’t you tell your teachers?” demands Elric.

“I . . .” Tom wants to bite his tongue off. Burn Elric’s golden hair right through their follicles. “I was afraid.”

Elric’s eyes narrow. “I should rat you out to Dumbledore.”

Would Tom be able to alter Elric’s memories? Even Dumbledore didn’t manage.

“But I want to see those notes and the old bat would probably stamp Forbidden all over them,” continues Elric.

Almost everyone in the Wizarding World would.

“Well,” says Elric.

Tom bites his lips, still trying to get himself under control.

“You wouldn’t have told me that if you weren’t just _dying_ to show someone.”

Well. No. And Tom has been itching to hear Elric talk about Alchemy for so long . . .

* * *

“You said this guy wanted to ‘purify his blood’ or whatever, right?” Elric asks after glancing through Tom’s notes.

They’re in Hogsmeade, huddled in a corner table far away from the entrance and a little too close to the bathrooms. Tom cast a Cloaking Charm anyway, mostly to keep Elric’s throng of feminine admirers from noticing them.

“Yes,” says Tom. He has to stick his hands in his robes because his palms itch, like someone’s cast a particularly stupid Jinx on him.

“And there was no one else around when you . . . found me?”

“No,” says Tom. “Is the . . . array . . . will it help you?” Is it any good? Was Tom even a little bit close?

“Nah, there’s nothing here I couldn’t do myself except I got too many morals,” says Elric. He pushes a hand through his hair and squeezes his eyes shut, takes a deep breath and then pushes Tom’s scrolls away with a frustrated grunt.

Tom levitates the papers back onto their table. He should a lot more indignant about Elric’s disrespect, but it’s possible he’s gotten used to his character. He’s a beast, that boy and everything. The important thing is Elric’s a proficient enough alchemist that Tom’s admittedly blundering attempts at the art leave him cold. He needs to find a way to extract knowledge from the brat.

Pretend he’s a literal sphinx, perhaps. Graceful and brimming with secrets, but lacking in any true awareness of his place in the universe. He’s at least entertaining, which is more than can be said for almost every other person Tom has ever been forced to interact with.

“Fuck,” says Elric, staring off into the distance, gaze not even turned in Tom’s direction.

First things first. “Are you still planning to leave Hogwarts?”

“Can’t leave now,” snaps Elric, still not deigning to grace Tom with a glance.

On anyone else, the lack of eye contact would signal submission and weakness. Coming from Elric, it looks like haughty, careless slight. An _unintentional_ one, which should grate Tom’s nerves more than it does.

“I have to talk to Dumbledore about this,” Elric mumbles to himself abruptly and Tom almost doesn’t think to reach for him. 

**Author's Note:**

> I usually waste time on [my blog](http://www.dynamicallyopposed.com/).


End file.
